


The Quiet Inside

by loudspeakr



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: F/M, Family, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7352410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loudspeakr/pseuds/loudspeakr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Link is left to face the end, he doesn't stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quiet Inside

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Was Last](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6476314) by [missingparentheses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingparentheses/pseuds/missingparentheses). 



> A mild trigger warning for implied death may apply.

The sun sits low and orange on the horizon, peeking through tussled trees that send speckled light filtering in. The day is winding down, leaving only hushed voices in crisp white corridors, and Link can no longer stand the way his footsteps now echo on the linoleum floors. Desperate to keep moving, to be anywhere but here, Link arrives at the correct door and pushes down on the handle. Its hinges make the smallest creak, opening just wide enough for he and Rhett to slip through, afraid to upset the quiet inside. Despite their caution, the guitar Rhett carries hits the wall as he passes, letting out a hollow pang. The tall man cringes, throwing an apologetic glance at Link in front of him. It isn’t returned.

They find her asleep nestled in plain cotton blankets, her head resting on pillows that prop her upright. The glare from the lamp beside her casts her face partly in shadow, so before he really looks at her, Link walks over and slides the curtains further apart, letting in the last of the daylight. When he does lay his eyes on his sleeping wife, Rhett can see the tremble in his best friend’s bottom lip from where he stands tense at the foot of her bed. Link’s feet carry him forward, hesitance in every step, unwilling to pull her from her rest. She looks peaceful, content, and Link does not want to be the one to take that away. Not now. But a glance at Rhett tells him that he needs to be selfish, just this once – _time grants no allowances, my love_ – so he gingerly folds himself down in the chair beside her.

With the sight before him and the dull ache in his spine, Rhett does his darnedest to hold it together. Even though this has been a long time coming, he isn't ready. His mind meanders back to the room where their families wait down the hall, wanting to seek the comfort he would receive there. But they aren't with him now, and Rhett needs to be here – body and mind – for his brother, if not for himself. Knuckles white around the neck of his guitar, he focuses on the flow of air from his windpipe to his lungs, attempting to dispel the stutter he feels with each inhale, exhale. He and Link have always thrived on quiet moments like these, revelling in them before Link throws out an easy quip for Rhett to take and run with. However, this is new territory for both of them. After decades of friendship, they are still finding firsts.

Link is careful –  _Link has never been careful in his entire life_ – when he closes the space between he and Christy. There is reverence in the way his hand glides under hers and clasps, fitting together like a lock and key, when he presses his lips to the hand he has held dear for most of his life. Her skin is impossibly warm, petal-white against his tan. There’s a flicker of a memory – white lace sweeping a carpeted floor – and it’s whisked away just as abruptly as it appeared. Link swallows down the anxiety that threatens to spill, his gaze trained on her paper-thin eyelids. They flutter prettily against the dark smudges under her eyes. Then her lips part, and there’s a raspy wince, signalling her ascent back into consciousness. Her eyes find his. Link squares his shoulder, shoving his nerves aside, and leans in to greet her.

“Hey, baby.”

Christy blinks at him, and Link falls into another memory, her hazel eyes looking back into his under a different sky in a different lifetime. Her hair – the colour of the wheat fields they would spend summers driving past – falls to her collarbones, curling softly at the ends where they’re framed by the fallen strap of her ruby-red sundress. He catches it, lifting it back into place atop her freckled shoulder with the tip of his finger, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. She shivers, even under the warmth of the golden sun that watches them. Link has never been this nervous, so he musters up all the courage he can and does next what feels most natural: leaning in hastily with eyes scrunched up, he presses his lips to her face. He feels them collide messily with her cheek, and suddenly he’s fighting the urge to retch. He missed, he screwed up. But, miraculously, when he opens his eyes again, there is no trace of disgust or pity in her features. Instead, Christy beams at him, playing a concerto with Link’s heartstrings, and her lips are on his, showing him the way.

He’s followed them, obediently, helplessly, ever since.

“Hi, love.” Christy’s voice is small against the beeping of the machines beside her bed, but Link picks it up without straining. She shuffles in her sheets, sitting up for her guests, ever the hostess. Link tries not to grimace when he notices the discomfort written all over her face, what little strength it takes to exhaust her now. Once she is settled, Christy’s eyes dart past Link and find Rhett – _that one’s my second husband_ – towering over her feet. She manages a chuckle. “I see your wingman is here, too?”

Link lifts his head to look at his brother, whose presence he’d momentarily forgotten. Rhett’s peppering beard twitches at the mention, making Christy giggle. And despite himself, Link can’t help but join in. He would do anything to drown in the melody of her laugh, to let it swallow him whole until the end of days.

Rhett ducks his head, self-conscious, unable to speak for himself. Christy lends him a smile, its radiance thawing out his frozen limbs. She is the little sister he never had and loves just as fiercely, and it hurts his soul to see her so fragile, to the point where he thinks he might just break right in front of her. But he is the second number on her speed-dial; his is the face she sees when all she wants is to have a culinary adventure; he is not just Link’s best man but hers as well. Rhett is her big brother, brave and strong. So instead of letting the tears slide down his face, Rhett responds with a trademark quirk of his brow, the apples of his cheeks reddening under her scrutiny.

Taking note of the guitar slung at Rhett’s side, Christy shoots her husband a knowing look, a lock of silver hair falling over her face. But she plays along, remaining silent. She has lived with Link long enough to understand his meticulous nature, needing to plan things down to the minutiae, and she has beared witness to the destruction thereafter when his plans have fallen apart. She lets him have his moment, and Link is endlessly grateful.

“Christy,” he begins, his dry throat itching at the words that leave it. “I wrote you something.”

Link has always been a simple man, never one for emphatic speeches or grand displays of affection. For him, it was the small things: a brewed pot of coffee before she even got out of bed, a fresh vase of flowers every other day in the living room, a cupped hand on her belly as she falls asleep because he knows she struggles to fall under when she’s cold. And though Christy never complained or spoke a single unkind thing about the way her husband chose to love her, he knew deep down that she ached for something a little more. He would be damned if he was going to deny her.

The lyrics came in waves and lurches. For weeks, Link toiled at the office whenever he could tolerate being away, with Rhett strumming his old guitar, sombre and silent, opposite him. It would be the first song Link would write on his own and the last gift he would ever give to the bearer of his heart; the weight of this revelation was not lost on him. But he carried on, working on through nights better spent at home by his wife’s side. And never once was he left to his own devices: dedicated to the cause, Rhett was always on hand to listen or to offer an idea, despite the twinge in his back protesting for him to go home and rest. That’s how it always was with Rhett, moving worlds for the people he loved.

Upon hearing his cue, Rhett approaches the two, his long strides muted on the carpet, and pulls up a chair behind Link, who aids him into his seat with a sturdy, upheld hand. He tucks his guitar under his arm like he has a thousand times before, sending a smile, slow and sweet, in Christy’s direction. Watching himself strum, the first few chords hang in the air, waiting for Link’s vocals to meet them, but they don’t come. Confused, Rhett halts his playing and looks up to see his brother has doubled over onto Christy’s lap, sobbing brokenly. Her hand, quivering with the effort, reaches out and covers Link’s tight fist grabbing at her blankets. She coos to him, like one would an upset child, but Link simply shakes his head at the coaxing. So she waits for him to be ready, exercising a patience she has cultivated over many years. And after minutes pass, Link hiccups and falls silent, his face still hidden from his family. When he finally speaks, his voice is thick with quiet hysteria.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

Though muffled and shaky, Link’s honesty is enough to cut at Rhett’s resolve. The tears begin to brim over, and Rhett is surprised to see Christy reach that point as well, wiping away the droplets as they fall on her sallow cheeks. Throughout this process, she offered nothing but laughter and encouragement for her frightened family – _I’m going to see Jesus soon, you know_ – her lifetime’s work as a teacher and mother enduring yet. Though he knew it was there, Rhett truly believed he wouldn’t ever see the pain simmering beneath. And through meetings with her specialists and gentle conversations with her grandchildren, the mask never slipped. But there in plain sight, she weeps with her love, placing a hand on each side of his face. She pulls him to her and Link follows one more time, carefully sitting beside her and entwining his fingers with hers.

“This is it,” Christy whispers. “It’s all you now, baby.”

Her words take him back to their home in North Carolina, mere minutes before the first broadcast of his and Rhett’s web-show all those years ago. Quitting their engineering jobs, one after the other, had brought them to the cusp of that something big they had both dreamt of as boys. But the terror clawed at him, knowing the possibility of failure could take everything away in an instant. Despite her husband’s fears for their young family, Christy held firm, always believing. _You can do this_ , she’d uttered to him in the darkness of their basement. It was the only thing he needed to hear.

And of course, _of course_ , she knows: it’s exactly what he needs to hear now.

His faith renewed, Link draws in breath and looks into his wife’s eyes, bright and hopeful, as Rhett starts his playing once more.

**Author's Note:**

> This one's my third submission for the Rhink Summer Ficathon 2k16 - the prompt was "I can't believe this is happening".
> 
> But the main inspiration was missingparentheses's gorgeous fic "I Was Last" - go go go read it if you haven't yet! A particular scene has been stuck in the dark corners of my brain since I first read it four months ago, and the ficathon was just a really good excuse to finally get it out (not to mention, gah, that prompt killed me).
> 
> As usual, kudos and comments are warmly appreciated! <3


End file.
